


Lists Are For People With Goals (Goals Are For People Who Want To Get Naked)

by rockinrye



Series: Lists Are For People With Goals (Goals Are For People Who Want To Get Naked) [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/pseuds/rockinrye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has goals. She’s fucking writing them down and then she’s going to tackle them and her hot, hot girlfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lists Are For People With Goals (Goals Are For People Who Want To Get Naked)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the List `verse, in which Santana has a list of goals that involve getting naked. It'll be a series of one-shots that tick-off things on Santana (and Rachel's) bucket list. This is the beginning.

Okay, so, the swelling goes down pretty quickly but she still whines about how much it hurts while she sips freshly squeezed orange juice and massacres a stack of oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes when Rachel takes her to brunch. Rachel ignores the whimper she makes on the third sip and actually _kicks_ her when she hisses on the fifth.  
   
“You’re being a fucking baby,” she says calmly, which makes Santana frown like one immediately. She recovers with a quick eye roll and crosses her legs, biting a piece of bacon. Rachel rarely swears (the bedroom doesn’t count) but Santana takes the hint because Rachel might have turned insanely red when Puck claimed to have seen them, but she’s doing that fidgety thing that she does when she’s pretending her libido isn’t just as fucked up as Santana’s. She does not need to be on her girl’s bad side.  
   
“M’not,” she mutters anyway because she can’t help it. Rachel just makes this little amused noise with the tip of her tongue pressed between her teeth. That shouldn’t make her eat faster but it does because Ned called and said they could come home at two and the more she can enjoy her day from home the better.  
   
They’re not even home two minutes, and one of her arms is still in her leather jacket, when Rachel tips her over the arm of the couch and tugs at her zipper. She’s pretty sure her jeans are on _top_ of the bookshelf but Rachel’s enthusiasm will never be a bad thing.  
   
“You forgive me?” Rachel asks, giggling against Santana’s mouth. Santana nods, doesn’t mention that the kissing still sort of stings because Rachel’s slipping down her body and, yeah, it’s not really important.  
   
She finally shakes her arm out of the jacket and lets it fall over the edge of the couch when Rachel slides back up her body and kisses her soundly, letting her taste herself. She’s practically melting she’s so hot. And she may or may not be having difficulty catching her breath.  
   
“Last night was really good,” Rachel says, biting her lip. Santana nods and tugs at Rachel’s hips, pushes her skirt up and tugs her panties down. She pulls her closer until she’s sitting on her chest.  
   
“You gonna help me out?” She asks, smirking. She licks her lips because Rachel looks really fucking hot from this angle.  
   
“You said two weeks,” Rachel says, half-serious.  
   
“Yeah right, baby. Come sit on my face.”  
   
*  
   
“Babe.” She groans and pulls her pillow closer to her face. Rachel says her name, shakes her shoulder then snatches the pillow from under her. That bitch.  
   
“What could you possibly want?” She says, one eye open, blindly reaching for her pillow.  
   
“I’m leaving.”  
   
“Okay and this affects me how?” Rachel sighs, knocks her in the head with the pillow.  
   
“We have a last minute rehearsal.”  
   
“Bye.”  
   
“Santana!”  
   
“What?” She says, voice cracking with sleep. Like, seriously, what the fuck? She figures she should be allowed to sleep after being nearly suffocated on their couch. Honestly? Her mouth is like a gift and a curse.  
   
“You don’t care?”  
   
“Not really, no.”  
   
“We were supposed to spend the day together.”  
   
“The pillow smells like you. I’ll be fine.”  
   
“You’re impossible.” She opens both eyes because obviously this isn’t going to be over anytime soon.  
   
“Jesus Christ. C’mere,” she reaches for Rachel’s wrist and pulls her down then wraps her arms around her and kisses her quick. “I’d love to pretend to be heartbroken but duty calls or whatever. You’ll be home tonight. I’ll bend you over something and shit’ll be good, y’know?”  
   
Rachel narrows her eyes but there’s a grin on her lips.  
   
“My preference is the kitchen table,” she says, tapping Santana’s cheek.  
   
“Well I like to keep you happy. So we can work with that. I’m still pulling for the fire escape though.”  
   
“Santana.”  
   
“I’ll wear you down some day. Now go be a star or obnoxious or like, whatever it is you do.”  
   
“I don’t like you,” Rachel says, pulling her hair.  
   
“You know I like that shit. What time do you have to be there?” She tilts her head to see the dock on the nightstand.  
   
“Five o’clock.” She hums and Rachel just shakes her head. “No.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“We don’t have time, Santana.”  
   
“I can be quick.”  
   
“I know you can.”  
   
“Okay, seriously, stop taking shots at my longevity. I can last.”  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
   
“I come first _two times_ on accident and you start talking like I’m Finn Hudson.”  
   
“I didn’t _say_ anything.”  
   
“You’re fucking sneaky.” Rachel just rolls her eyes, brushes Santana’s hair out her face then leans down to kiss her. It’s slow and dirty and like, Santana can’t really be blamed if her hand finds its way into Rachel’s panties. There’s a magnet there. Be quiet.  
   
*  
   
Okay, so, maybe she lied. She’s basically bored as fuck with Rachel gone and she _was_ looking forward to spending the day with her girlfriend. (Not just the kind of spending time that results in orgasms either.)  
   
She tried the TV thing but that sucked and she fucked around on the Internet for a while, but really she just wants to be like, talking out loud and making fun of Rachel right now.  
   
So, yeah, boredom. That’s totally her excuse for being stark naked in her kitchen drinking tequila out of a reusable iced-coffee cup. (Whatever, don’t judge.) She totally brought the bottle of Cuervo home because Mike’s a pussy and he won’t notice.  
   
Maybe she clicks on the iHome and slides across the floor to get the Doritos off the top of the fridge but she’s not dancing intentionally or anything. Until she is, but whatever, Michael Jackson has that affect on people.  
   
She goes from bored and naked to bored, naked and drunk over the span of four songs. Then bored, naked, drunk and hungry about ten songs after that.  
   
Don’t even though because law school and her internship are _hard_ and when she gets time to wind down she’s fucking taking it, even if that means looking up vegan taco recipes and tweeting shit she’ll totally delete later.  
   
(She’s just really glad she keeps her profile private and doesn’t let Rachel follow her because _Maybe I fucking miss you_ is embarrassing enough when Puck retweets it with a fucking link to ‘sap’ on Urban Dictionary. She doesn’t need Rachel gloating.)  
   
The shells are toasting when her mind starts to wander. She’s naked and cooking tacos so naturally she starts thinking about sex. Well, really she never actually stops thinking about it unless it’s to _have_ sex. Whatever. She’ll live longer than you because of it.  
   
Anyway.  
   
She has an awesome sex life. She’s totally gotten laid twice today and she knows she’ll be tapping Rachel again later. It’s only 9 o’clock; she basically has the best life ever. It’s just that there’s a notebook that they write their grocery and to-do lists in sitting on the counter and she has thoughts and, well, things to-do.  
   
She thinks lists are stupid but that’s partly because Rachel loves them so much. It’s sort of her duty to be contrary.  
   
Anyway, Rachel’s argument when Santana says they’re dumb is that “they’re for people with goals” or something like that. Normally that shit makes no sense but after draining her cup of tequila it seems pretty fucking accurate.  
   
She has goals. She’s fucking writing them down and then she’s going to tackle them and her hot, hot girlfriend.  
   
*  
   
“Why are you naked?”  
   
She’s too drunk to scowl but that doesn’t stop her from trying.  
   
“You know, you’re the only person who complains about my nudity. People would fucking pay to see me like this.”  
   
Rachel laughs.  
   
(She honestly doesn’t like her. Like, seriously. That asshole. That stupidly _cute_ asshole.)  
   
She’s not sure how well rolling her eyes goes over, but, whatever, Rachel gets the point.  
   
“I made vegan tacos. You should be fucking kissing me.”  
   
“Chicken isn’t vegan, Santana.”  
   
“At least I didn’t use a cow!” She didn’t know she was doing stand-up comedy but Rachel’s laughing again and that desire to kick her is back, too.  
   
“Why are you drunk?”  
   
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire, baby.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“We go together, bitch. Damn.” She hates that she likes Rachel’s giggle so much because she should be frowning but she’s not. “Are you gonna hug me or what?”  
   
“You want a hug?” There’s that stupid smirk.  
   
“I’m not pressed or anything. M’just giving you an excuse to rub up on me.” Rachel makes a noise but sits on her lap and wraps her arms around her neck.  
   
“You know,” she says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Santana’s mouth, “I’m not so sure about leaving you home alone now.”  
   
“What? I’m fucking awesome when I’m home alone. I cooked.”  
   
“You made ‘vegan’ chicken tacos. And did you do that with your eyes closed?” Rachel tips her head back, looks toward the kitchen with this face that says she already knows what to expect. Santana doesn’t have to look to know that it’s a mess. Of course she didn’t clean up. Like, why? Tequila.  
   
“’Course I looked.” Rachel just makes a noise, fits her head into the crook of Santana’s neck and breathes slow. “You missed me?”  
   
“No. But I did hear that you missed me,” she basically sings.  
   
“You heard wrong.”  
   
“Really?” Rachel picks her phone up off the coffee table and has this evil little grin working while she slides through her pictures. She holds up a screenshot of Puck’s retweet and lifts her brows. There’s obviously no one left for Santana to like in this world.  
   
“Didn’t tweet that.”  
   
“You didn’t? That’s definitely _your_ Twitter name.”  
   
“Whatever. It says ‘ _maybe_ I miss you’. That doesn’t mean I did. Just means I possibly could have and guess what. I didn’t.”  
   
“Okay, baby,” Rachel says, getting up. “I’m gonna get you some clothes.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“So you don’t catch a cold. I don’t think I can take you whining anymore than usual.”  
   
“I don’t whine.”  
   
Rachel just raises her eyebrows then rolls her eyes with her hands planted on her hips.  
   
“Why would I ever put on clothes when I’ve been guzzling tequila? I’m naked. Take advantage of it.”  
   
Maybe she’s slurring and maybe there’s two Rachel’s. Whatever. That just means two sets of Rachel’s legs in this tiny ass dress. She reaches for one pair and Rachel leans back.  
   
“You’re going to bed.”  
   
“Uh huh. Sure. Going down on you in bed.” She squeezes her eyes shut. Double the legs were exciting for like two seconds. Now it’s just making her dizzy.  
   
“Mhm.” Rachel says amused, reaching for her hand. She doesn’t take it, just pushes it out of her way and lifts herself off the couch. She might stumble a little but it’s nothing a pro can’t handle. She wraps her arms around Rachel’s waist and fits her chin onto her shoulder.  
   
“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” she says, right into Rachel’s ear. Rachel just hums and covers the hands on her stomach with her own. “I fucking love fucking you.”  
   
“Santana, shut up.”  
   
“I do though like, usually the fact that you’re loud is annoying but it’s kind of awesome when I’m knuckle deep and shit.”  
   
“Please be quiet.” Rachel says, pushing her onto the bed.  
   
“I’m pretty sure I could get you pregnant if I tried. You wanna have my baby?”  
   
She’s not sure if she can’t read the expression on Rachel’s face because she’s drunk or because she doesn’t want to, but after Rachel’s done gaping at her with this hint of a smile (she thinks) teasing at the corners of her mouth she just says, “Go to sleep, Santana,” and kisses her forehead.  
   
She doesn’t fall asleep so much as she passes out.  
   
*  
   
When she wakes up, she’s wearing a sleepshirt she doesn’t remember putting on and a headache that makes her think maybe Hagrid tripped and fell on her head. There’s a glass of water and two pills waiting on the nightstand. She sits up to take them then presses herself back into the mattress. She can hear some jazz music coming from the living room but it’s soft enough not to make her head throb anymore than it is.  
   
She has a bunch of studying that she’s put off to do, so she gets up after a few minutes to take her shower. She pulls on a pair of red and white polka dot boyshorts with buttons up the front and a t-shirt from Lima Elementary that shouldn’t fit (and doesn’t really).  
   
She can’t stop scowling and doesn’t really want to.  
   
Rachel looks up from her book and takes a sip of tea before she smiles at Santana and says, “Babe, I’m pretty sure shirts are supposed to cover things.”  
   
She shrugs and runs her fingers over her exposed abdomen. It’s not tight on her arms, a little snug around the shoulders and it stops just above her belly button. It’s from fifth grade and it says her name on the back and there’s only a tiny hole on the back, so. It’s fair game.  
   
“You like it,” she says. Rachel makes an amused noise and leans up to kiss her when she bends over the couch.  
   
“Mm. Toothpaste, not tequila,” Rachel muses, pushing a few stray strands out of Santana’s face and toward her ponytail. She rolls her eyes.  
   
“Duh. I’m not a slob or anything.” Rachel just ignores her and keeps smoothing her hair down while she leans over the back of the couch with her elbows.  
   
“How’s your headache?” Rachel asks, running a thumb over her temples. She just grunts and pokes her lip out. Rachel makes this little face of sympathy with her brows furrowed and her own lip jutting out and strokes her cheek. “There’s coffee for you in the kitchen.” She smiles at that because she really didn’t feel like making it herself. She doesn’t deserve any sympathy because the random hangover from the party of one is all her fault but it’s nice to be taken care of.  
   
“Thanks, baby.” She kisses Rachel again, a little longer, a little sweeter, and strokes the side of her jaw with the pad of her thumb. Rachel giggles when she pulls back. She winks as Santana’s heading into the kitchen and tells her that her ass looks nice.  
   
Of fucking course it does.  
   
She pours herself a cup of French roast, takes a tentative sip and grabs a slice of cinnamon-raisin bread out of the breadbox and eats it without bothering to toast it. She’s sort of starving.  
   
She’s flipping through the little notebook on the table about to write ‘Doritos’ on the grocery list when her eyes do that comical widening thing and she looks over her shoulder to see if Rachel is coming. She doesn’t remember a lot from last night because, honestly, she should not be left alone with tequila and the ability to get naked, but writing a list of ways, places and positions to fuck Rachel in? She remembers _that_ and she totally wasn’t supposed to just leave it lying around. If Rachel finds it, she’ll get all moral on her and like, withhold sex, which is, you know, the opposite of her goal of maximum orgasms before death.  
   
She rips it out of the book, folds it and tries to put it in her shirt but she’s not wearing a bra, so. She kind of tucks it into her panties on the side of her hip and writes both ‘Doritos’ and ‘whipped cream’ on the grocery list before slipping past Rachel and into their bedroom to put the paper in her underwear drawer.  She’ll have to revisit that later.  
   
*  
   
Santana’s kind of glad that Rachel’s show won’t be running again for a few weeks because she’s missed her. She’s not going to tell her that though because Rachel will have more things to hold over her head and she confesses enough stuff when she’s drunk. But, really, she has.  
   
Rachel sits in the armchair when Santana comes into the living room with books under her arm and a highlighter between her teeth. She lies on the couch on her belly, cracks open her book and studies with Miles and Coltrane playing softly in the background.  
   
They don’t even really talk. Rachel reads over a script, scribbling notes every few seconds with the pencil she tucks behind her ear and Santana highlights like crazy and makes notecards but they catch each other’s eye a few times and her heart thuds a little and pushes a smile onto her face. It’s nice, just being like this.  
   
*  
   
Her eyes start hurting after reading for five hours, so she snaps the second text closed and pushes herself up off the couch. Rachel laid down for a nap two hours ago and she’s tired too, so she ventures into their bedroom and finds her girl curled up around a pillow.  
   
She’s cute in that _yes, she’s completely silent right now_ kind of way. Santana presses a kiss to the skin Rachel’s tank top leaves exposed on her shoulder and settles her hand on her stomach. Rachel shifts closer and threads their fingers together.     
   
“Hey,” Rachel says, voice gruff from sleep. She rolls out of her original position so Santana moves so she’s lying on her back. Rachel curls into her side, draws what Santana’s sure are stars and the letter ‘R’ against her skin and walks her other fingers up her shoulder.  
   
“Not sleepy anymore?” Rachel shakes her head and nuzzles her face against her chest. “You sleep well at least?”  
   
“Yes.” She’s quiet again for a moment, finger still dragging over Santana’s stomach. “Are you tired?”  
   
Santana hums and says, “Yeah. I have like twenty pages of reading left though.”  
   
She can feel Rachel’s pout against her when she says, “Boo,” and pushes her leg up over Santana’s so their thighs are pressed together. “I wish you weren’t so drunk last night,” she says softly.  
   
“Why?”  
   
“I had all these plans to rock your world.”  
   
When she looks down, Rachel’s biting on her bottom lip and looking up at her through her lashes so she can’t even like, make fun of her for that phrasing because she’s mostly just thinking about how she wants her to do it right now.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Mhm,” she says, pressing her hand down against Santana’s belly, sliding it back and forth then pushing down until her fingers are idly plucking at the buttons on Santana’s boyshorts. They don’t actually open, they’re just kind of there and she really wishes they weren’t just decorations.  
   
“What were you plans?” Rachel gives her this little grin and presses her lips to Santana’s chest, over her shirt. The touch is minute but she arches into it anyway.  
   
“Can I take these off?” Rachel asks. Fucking duh she can. Santana just pushes her hips forward and gives Rachel a look. The girl just smiles and scrunches her nose then hooks her thumbs into the band and pulls them down slow.  
   
She lets out this little breath that makes tension coil in Santana’s stomach when they’re completely off then runs her fingers up Santana’s calf and over her thigh until her fingers are right there but not really touching anything.  
   
“Baby,” she says, hips rolling. Sometimes slow is good but like, she could at least _start_. It really doesn’t take much for Rachel to get her wet and she knows that.  
   
(Seriously, Rachel said “salad” in this voice while she was cooking once and they ended up boning on the kitchen floor, so. She’s totally ready for her.)  
   
She considers grabbing Rachel’s wrist and doing it herself but that’ll just make her stop and get pissy.  
   
“Rach, c’mon,” she says, instead. Rachel shakes her head, ghosts her hand over where Santana _wants_ it then skims all the way up until it’s resting on her sternum.  
   
“Your shirt.”  
   
Okay, seriously, she could’ve just, you know, said that one wasted orgasm ago. She’s done the math, alright? She could’ve gotten Rachel off by doing that thing with her tongue in like, seconds, so. Be quiet.  
   
She lifts up so Rachel can tug it over her head and toss it. She gets wetter just because of the way Rachel is looking at her. She’s about to say something about how this isn’t a fucking museum and if it is, it’s the hands on kind but then Rachel kisses her, soft and teasing, and starts giving her a little pressure between her legs.  
   
It’s not nearly enough because Rachel makes her feel like she’s on fire and just _needs_ to get off to cool down most days, but it’s something she can work with, so she just threads her fingers into Rachel’s hair, tugs her closer to her mouth and nips at her lips. Rachel switches the pattern of her fingers and she lets out this fucking whimper and pushes her tongue into the girl’s mouth just to save herself some embarrassment.  
   
Rachel’s still just kind of teasing. She fucking gets off on working Santana up like this. She does not want to beg but …  
   
“Baby,” she whines, hips rolling again and Rachel just kind of smiles down at her before taking her bottom lip into her mouth and tugging it with her teeth.  
   
“Don’t I always take care of you?” She nods because she does, but, fuck, she just needs— _that_.  
   
She’s not even embarrassed about the moan that tears from her throat when Rachel pushes her fingers inside and curls them up. She is, however, embarrassingly close but whatever as long as she gets there. “You’re so wet,” Rachel says with this dirty little grin, pulling her fingers out and rubbing her clit with them. She keens and lets her eyes fall shut when Rachel pushes them back in.  
   
“Fuck, Rach. There.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Mm, yes … fuck.” Rachel fucking _giggles_ before kissing her and curling her fingers just so. Her back snaps into a bend and her hips push up but Rachel’s body is fitted between her legs and, fuck, it’s … it’s perfect, the pressure that sends her over the edge with her girl’s tongue massaging her own, drowning the beginning of a long low moan.  
   
“Shit,” she says when her breathing’s evened out a bit. Rachel just hums and pulls her fingers out then pushes her hips down against Santana’s. “Stop,” she laughs out, hands running up and down Rachel’s back. “I’ll come again.”  
   
“That’s not a bad thing.”  
   
“Fuck, I know,” she says. She’s just … shit. She just can’t right now. Rachel looks at her, eyes still dark then runs her wet fingers over Santana’s lips until Santana’s wrapping her tongue around them and humming. Rachel pulls them out of her mouth with a smirk before leaning down and pushing her tongue into Santana’s mouth.  
   
“I want you again,” Rachel says when she pulls back.  
   
“Want you first,” she says, rolling them. Rachel moans so she figures they can take turns.  
   
*  
   
“Santana,” Rachel says, a few days later. Santana’s tossing her shirt into the hamper and rolling her pencil skirt down her hips.  
   
“Sup baby?”  
   
She really just wants to climb into the bed in front of her in her underwear and sleep until next week. Her internship is driving her insane and so are her classes but she knows that voice and it’s definitely not the ‘ _Nice to see that you’re home. Dinner’s in the oven_ ’ voice she wants it to be. Instead, it’s the ‘ _I have a bone to pick with you_ ’ voice and fuck if she knows what she did this time.  
   
Rachel just stares at her with this inscrutable expression and, oh god, she really, really doesn’t want to argue right now.  
   
“What now?”  
   
“This.” Rachel says holding up a piece of paper. She just gives her a quizzical look because like, what even is that?  
   
“Again. What now?”  
   
“This … this _list_.” Okay, but seriously, she needs her to like, explain in the next ten seconds or she’s diving head first under the covers never to return again. It’s fucking late.  
   
“What is it, Rach? I’m tired. I don’t actually read minds I’m just good at what I do.” Rachel rolls her eyes and holds the paper with both hands, gives it a little tug to straighten it.  
   
“Santana Lopez’s Sex Bucket List.”  
   
 _Oh_.  
   
“Oh.”  
   
Rachel makes a noise of disgust and glares at her then the paper. She’s not really sure what to say because, well, yeah. Rachel was never supposed to see the thing in the first place.  
   
“Wait,” she says, holding up a finger, a crease forming between her brows. “That was in my panty drawer.”  
   
“Well, yes,” Rachel says.  
   
“Why were you in my panty drawer?”  
   
“That’s besides the point. Why did you write this?”  
   
“I was drunk and I like fucking you. Duh.”  
   
“You’ve cheapened our lovemaking with this … ‘list’.”  
   
“I didn’t cheapen anything. That’s like a sure fire way to make it better than it already is. Like, you already get my mouth and my fingers now I’ve added my _brain_ to the mix. You should be celebrating it. There’s good shit on there.”  
   
“So, our relationship is just about sex?”  
   
“No. If it was, I wouldn’t have to share a bed because I would live alone and eat meat every day without feeling guilty.”  
   
Rachel rolls her eyes.  
   
“You don’t like living with me?”  
   
“Of course I like living with you. You make really good stir fry.”  
   
“Why am I dating you?” Rachel sighs.  
   
“Because I—“  
   
“Don’t finish that sentence, Santana.”   
   
She listens because it’s probably best that she not mention her skills again.  
   
“Pretty sure you should be congratulating me since I made a list of my goals.”  
   
Rachel’s eyes narrow and her little foot starts tapping against the floor while her hand clinches around her waist.  
   
“I really don’t see what the problem is. It’s not like I made a bet on whether or not I could complete it. It’s just a list of things I want to do with you because I actually, you know, like being with you.”  
   
She’s waiting for Rachel’s eyes to get stuck up there in her head with the way she keeps rolling them before the girl says, “Number 4? ‘Finger Rachel in the back of a city bus’? You hate the bus!”  
   
“Not if I’m having sex on it, I don’t.” She hasn’t seen _that_ look in a while. It’s high school Rachel’s ‘ _I cannot believe this_ ’ face and she’s usually really good at avoiding it. “It could be good. Like, having to be quiet and discreet? That shit at Mike’s was hot, really hot. You bit through my lip if you don’t remember.”  
   
“I did not bite through your lip, Santana.”  
   
“Whatever.”  
   
“Number 11 … dry humping? Are we twelve?”  
   
“First of all, _you_ didn’t dry hump ‘til you were like _sixteen_ and it’s for like, nostalgia. Shut up.”  
   
“You were probably twelve.”  
   
“Thirteen, asshole.”  
   
“Basically the same thing.”  
   
“Not true. Didn’t have boobs at twelve. They change things.”  
   
“You’re incorrigible.”  
   
“Your chest is flushed.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“You’re fucking turned on. I fucking know number 8 excites you.”  
   
“Well,” Rachel says, fixing her with a glare that has a smile behind it. “I’m not totally opposed to it as long as we have backstories.”  
   
“It’s a sex tape. We don’t need a backstory. You just need to lie on your back and let me do my thing for the camera.”  
   
“We have to have a backstory, Santana. I’m not compromising on this.”  
   
“Wait. You’re not like … completely opposed to this?”  
   
“Well, no. There are a few things I’m, uh, down with.”  
   
Fuck yes.  
   
Rachel tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and shakes her head.  
   
“Yeah?” Santana asks, quirking her eyebrows. She really can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corners of her mouth so she just goes with it. Rachel lets out this little breath then grins as she rolls her eyes and looks at the list again.  
   
“While I can’t deny that I find the appeal in completing this list,” Duh, orgasms? Sometimes Rachel isn’t that bright. “I’m not having sex on a pile of money.”  
   
“Why not? It’ll be fucking awesome and I’ll wear my Ray Bans while I go down on you. Like, night vision or some shit.”  
   
“Do you realize how _disgusting_ money is?”  
   
“Why do you care? We’ll be fucking on it.”   
   
“I really don’t like you.”  
   
“You love me, baby,” Santana says, pulling on a pair of shorts because, yeah, it’s sort of cold. “So…”  
   
“I have some revisions.”  
   
“Like…?”  
   
“Okay, so, number 5? I could … I could be down with it as long as the guy watching isn’t like, doing gross things.”  
   
“Works for me.” She says with a shrug.  
   
“And do I _have_ to be tied up for number 2?”  
   
“S’kinda the point.”  
   
“Hm. Okay.”  
   
“And Santana?”  
   
“Yeah?” She asks from the bathroom as she brushes her hair into a ponytail.  
   
“15?” Santana blushes. “It’s a little vanilla but I think that ones my favorite.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“It’s kind of sweet.”  
   
“I can be sweet.”  
   
“I know,” Rachel winks.  
   
*  
   
The next week teeters between exciting her and driving her nuts. Obviously she should’ve known that letting Rachel make revisions would be a headache.  
   
*  
   
“Santana,” Rachel says on Wednesday.  
   
“Sup baby?” She asks from the couch, nursing a cartoon of Chunky Monkey and catching up on some shows on TiVo.  
   
“How would you feel about stripping for me?”  
   
“I don’t know,” she says slowly, fighting the smirk. Someone’s had the hots for her since high school. Awesome.  
   
“Why?”  
   
“I mean, the last time we had a conversation about stripping I ended up in tears, so.”  
   
Rachel makes this little face and Santana puts ice cream in her mouth to keep from laughing. Of course she doesn’t mind stripping. Have you seen her body?  
   
“I’ve already apologized for that and you’re about to become an amazing lawyer so I was clearly wrong.”  
   
“You done?” Rachel huffs. “What am I wearing before I take my clothes off?”  
   
“I have to do some research first.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“Can you rent poles?”  
   
“Hope so. Have a few tricks up my sleeve from that amateur night I did freshman year.”  
   
“You’ve stripped before?”  
   
“Maybe.”  
   
*  
   
“There’s a rooftop party in a few weeks,” Rachel says when they’re lying in bed on Friday. Santana’s reading and Rachel’s been texting Puck about his inappropriate tweets.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“I’ve always wanted to have sex at a party – though you sort of made a career of that in high school – and it satisfies your desire for something very public. So, it would cover number 9. I figure if we can find a dark corner, preferably with a solid brick wall, then…”  
   
“You had me at rooftop.”  
   
“Classy.”  
   
“It’s your idea.”  
   
*  
   
The money thing comes up again on Saturday morning after she fucking comes up for air. Seriously, Rachel has strong thighs and it’s nice to know she’s still fucking _excellent_ with her mouth, but she’d prefer her neck not to be snapped.  
   
“Money is just so dirty,” Rachel says when she’s got a hand between Santana’s thighs and Santana’s, well, distracted.  
   
Yeah, Rachel’s not slick. She’s trying to catch her off guard but she’s not compromising on this. She already let her get rid of the original number 5. She doesn’t _need_ a voyeur, so that’s fine, but she’s fucking on a pile of money while wearing wayfarers and an open button up. That’s that.  
   
*  
   
They finally come to an agreement on the list on Tuesday.  
   
(She may or may not have gone down on Rachel until she was whimpering and snapping her legs shut to secure number 4 but she’s never copped to playing fair.  
   
And it’s not like she didn’t get fucked on the couch in the middle of Real Housewives of Atlanta to agree to let Rachel come up with backstories for the sex tape. So, really, it’s a win-win for everybody.)  
   
“I can work with this,” Rachel says tapping her pen against the kitchen table. Santana just smirks and sips her coffee, leaning her hip against the counter.  
   
“No more revisions.”  
   
“None,” Rachel says.  
   
“Are we doing this in order?”  
   
“I thought we’d just work through it based on opportunity.”  
   
“So, say I wanted to take a ride on the bus on our way home from dinner next week…?”  
   
“Then I’d wear a dress for easier access and find my bus pass.”  
   
“I love you.”  
   
“Love you too, Santana,” Rachel says rolling her eyes.  



End file.
